In a Time of War
by buckup
Summary: Number 12 Grimmauld Place has been their lives for what seems like years. Fear and expectation can turn even the most guarded students into an intimate individual. Hermione and Ginny find comfort from the world in eachother. HGGW still in progress
1. Of disclaimers and legalities

The following disclaimer is applicable for the entirety of the text:

All characters, previous situations, and histories represented in this story are referenced from JK Rowling's book series "Harry Potter". All rights to characters etc. are the explicit property of the original author, here JK Rowling. The story operates without the most recent book, The Half Blood Prince, for plot and continuity reasons.

Ratings explanation:

The story was rated Mature for intimacy between two females, at some points quite graphically. Read at your own discretion.

And after all that nitty gritty stuff, lets get into the action!


	2. Of dusty books and candlelight

The two girls regarded each other over the many textbooks laid out before them. The candles had dimmed, a tribute to the deep of night. Something creaked and crackled beneath the floor. Number 12 Grimwald Place was home to more sounds than made a person comfortable, especially at this time. Mrs. Weasley was downstairs, no doubt cooking, cleaning, or a healthy combination of the two. It was all she could do to stay sane. Harry and Ron were out with most of the Professors and Dumbledore, leaving just the girls, the mother, a scared Nevelle and Luna (who were already asleep on the kitchen floor), and of course Mrs. Weasley, keeping the pair company while she bustled about. The absence of the sounds of people moving about did little to calm the nerves of Hermione as she sat there, wand ignited, pouring over book after book for hours at a time. Ginny had recently taken to helping Hermione. She needed the conversation, the closeness to another person. Nevelle didn't talk any more, and unless they were really desperate, most people avoided speaking to Luna at all costs. She had taken to memorizing anthems of various countries, and reciting them at will whenever addressed.

Yes, war forces people to do things they never thought they could. It leaves all sorts of marks on the subconscious, marring and defiling every crevice it touches until you go mad, in some cases. For Hermione and Ginny, this was their escape.

Hermione turned back to her reading, lowering her eyes to the page of blurred text. Age and mildew had distorted the ink, making it lean and ripple in ways that made the eyes burn and the brain spin. Ginny watched her reading, eyes flicking from line to line; reading, absorbing, retaining. She watched her gentle fingers follow her eyes, soft pads whispering across the roughened parchment, stroking the indistinct ink into careful lines for her to read. She shook her head softly, her red hair falling in eddies and waves over her shoulders to frame her face and neck. The book she held in her lap suddenly felt heavy, and she closed it softly. A puff of dust rose from the pages and settled painstakingly slowly back onto solid ground. The book joined its fellows on the ever-building pile between the pair, and Ginny stood up. Arching her back, she yawned and stretched her tensed and frozen muscles, hard and uncooperative from inactivity. Hermione looked up.

"Are you alright?" she asked, watching the rise and fall of her friend's chest, the subtle recoil of her ribs as she straightened and blinked. Ginny shrugged, walking over to the other side of the table to the sofa where Hermione had been stationed for the past twelve days.

"I'm just taking a break." There was a pause, as the studious girl returned to her reading. "Hey, Hermione? Can I ask you a question?"

She looked up again, regarding the redhead with wizened brown eyes. Something in the other girl's green eyes sparked a connection deep in her mind, like a handle to reality she had been looking for since the whole war began. Hermione nodded warmly, daring to smile, a mere twitch of the corners of her mouth. Ginny shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the book. Raising her eyes again, she took a breath of thought.

"Do you think we'll make it? Honestly. Do you think this is really it? That we'll die here in this house, never seeing Hogwarts, or Hogsmede, or anything ever again?" Her eyes shone with the question, reflecting two flickering spots of candle flame behind Hermione, pupils pinpricks despite the soft light. Hermione closed her eyes, head bowed in careful thought. She put her quill in the book and shut it with a gentle 'pomph' of heavy paper. Turning to sit facing Ginny on the long ornate couch, she crossed her left leg under her and steadied herself on the back cushions.

"Ginny, no matter what happens I'll be here for you. If we win, if Voldermort is defeated tomorrow, we can go out and have a grand celebration. Honeydukes and all. And if we stay here for four months more with no victory or defeat, we will stay here and do whatever we can to help Harry and Dumbledore," she spoke softly, looking at Ginny with a mixture of concentration and sympathy. "And if we loose the battle tomorrow there is no way we can do anything but accept the inevitable. It's nothing but a waiting game, and the least we can do is help."

Braced for the worst, Ginny still couldn't help but gloss over. Green eyes shimmering with the tears she couldn't seem to stop, heart slowly cleaving in two at the thought of her family lost and dead before the powers of the Dark Lord himself, and hands shaking with the effort of holding in her emotions, Ginny sat before Hermione, slowly coming apart. She didn't know what to do, what to say, how to react. She had known Hermione would say exactly what she did, but somehow she couldn't prepare herself. As the first tear broke free and slid down her cheek, she could do nothing but let everything out. Sliding forward on the sofa, she fell into a sobbing heap, head on Hermione's knee. Surprised, Hermione jerked back before stopping to look at the suffering girl before her. She felt her own tears threatening to flow, and as she pulled Ginny into a sitting position she shifted over closer, letting the weight of the crying girl fall onto her. Slowly, tentatively, unsure, Hermione wrapped her arms around Ginny. Ginny held on with all her anger and frustration, sadness and terror. Sobbing, gasping for air, and crying heavy tears of guilt and remorse, the two sat together in the soft candlelight.

"Shh. It's okay, Ginny. Don't cry, please don't cry. I don't know how to make this better, I don't. It's driving me crazy. Please, Ginny. Shh. Come back, I've got you. You're safe here. Shh," whispered Hermione, gently rocking Ginny in her arms, lightly brushing her red hair from her pink face. Ginny's sobs lessened, and finally stopped. Sniffles replaced bawling, and her breaths returned to normal. Hermione wouldn't let go. Ginny didn't want her to let go. Somehow this contact was… human. Ginny pulled tighter under Hermione's chin, pressing herself against her in the darkness, trying as hard as she could to melt into this body that held her safe from the world. Hugging tighter, Ginny inhaled deeply. She was holding a lifeline, smelling the human scent, wanting to taste the skin of someone who would hold her forever.

"Don't leave me, Hermione," Ginny squeaked into Hermione's collarbone. Hermione kept slowly petting the flaming red hair. She closed her eyes and put her chin down, meeting with the warm scalp. She inhaled, the scent of lavender filling her nose and her soul with a calm she hadn't felt in months. Suddenly Number 12 was just a place, a place where she was holding the only thing left that was good and pure. She clutched onto Ginny with resolution, something compelling her to kiss the part in her hair. Ginny's eyes opened, recognizing the feeling from her childhood, when her father used to kiss her there before bed. Before he was…

Ginny turned slightly, nuzzling Hermione's neck. She kissed the hollow of her collarbone, a long, lingering taste of the other woman. Hermione inhaled sharply with the sensation, eyes open with shock and mystified wonder. For a second something in the back of her mind told her to push Ginny away, to deny this happiness when everything around her was suffering. The feeling was dulled under the sensations radiating from her fluttering heart. Breathing faster to avoid the dizzying head rush, Hermione looked down at her… friend? Was this friendship? She pushed the question out of her mind.

Ginny felt the change. The erratic breathing, the pulse of the throat, the impulsive swallow. Closing her eyes she kissed her again, lightly just before the collar of the robes got in the way. Gooseflesh prickled up around her lips, adding texture to the taste she loved exploring. Kissing upwards, tilting her head to reach the side of her neck, just under her ear. A brief exhalation of air hissed beside her ear as she sucked harder on the delicate flesh; biting down softly, responding to the reactions above her. Hermione had closed her eyes, mouth open slightly, unconsciously gripping Ginny's shirt with each shockwave of intense reality.

Suddenly the feeling became too intense. She had to stop it, had to stop this from continuing. Ginny was her friend. A war is not the time to have fun, to explore, and taste, and moan in throes of ecstasy. Turning her jaw downwards to force Ginny away, Hermione breathed fitfully to chase pieces of her shattered calm and reason. The redhead looked up, eyes wild and confused, perplexed and questioning. This couldn't end. Something inside her had sparked, lit, caught on fire and was burning ablaze. Hermione looked at Ginny intently, studying her eyes. The green was lit, both with an inherent passion and the flames of the candles around them, seeming to glint and burn and dance in the darkness. Pupils, dilated black and deep, contracted ever so slightly with each breath. Hermione fought with herself, one hand braced on the couch back, one hand on the shoulder of her only hope.

It was right, it was natural. Giving in was inevitable. What was there left to go wrong? They couldn't loose anything more than they had already lost. Something about this night, this treacherous night at Number 12, was even more venomous than the rest. After so much terror and apprehension, Hermione needed to belong. Thumb gently caressing the sharply defined collar bone, she reached up decidedly to cup the back of Ginny's glowing hair. She smiled, leaning into the hand. Hermione dared to grin before leaning forward to press her lips against Ginny's.

Warmer than firecoal, all the frigid desperation in the room melted into their mouths. Gently, cautiously, exploringly, Hermione opened her mouth slightly, pressing forward, probing, letting her tongue taste everything she could reach. Ginny pressed back, arm snaking around Hermione's shoulder, awkwardly at first. Unlike Hermione, Ginny had some experience. On the other hand, Hermione seemed to have an inherent sexuality. Hermione responded, shifting on the couch to sit on her knees, urging Ginny to straddle her, pulling the small of her back closer. Ginny moaned, vibrations tickling Hermione's tongue, buzzing in her teeth and in her core.

Hermione snapped. Incendiary waves of intention and implication powered through all her emotional barriers, all of her carefully constructed barricades against fear and pain crashing down into pure pleasure. Breath peaking, sweat prickling on her forehead and neck, fingers clutching, raking along Ginny's back; she softly pulled away from her lips, turning to lick and kiss her ear and neck, alternately licking and nibbling at her skin. Ginny gasped, throwing her head back and sending ripples of golden red hair cascading down her back. Thrusting herself forward fluidly, their bodies meshed together, intertwined. Ginny pressed herself into Hermione, bodies touching from breasts to knees, trying their hardest to meet, to connect and bind.

Hermione stopped.

As the two pulled apart, Ginny looked at Hermione. Eyes meeting, they suddenly felt awkward. The redhead abruptly moved backwards, pulling away. Hermione did the same, scuttling to the opposite end of the couch, eyes wild and scared, darting nervously from her friends face to the floor, anywhere but in her eyes. Ginny clutched her neck with her fingers, willing away the burning heat in her chest, resolutely focused on a spot below Hermione's crossed feet.

"I… oh Gods…" stammered Hermione, holding her forehead, still rosy and warm from their contact. Ginny looked up, grimacing slightly.

"We should not have done that," said Ginny sharply, "that isn't right, what we just-"

"I know," replied Hermione, sitting pointedly forward, turned away from the light. Minutes passed, with nothing but the creaking of Mrs. Weasley down below echoing off the sudden calm of the room. Ginny shivered, unexpectedly cold. Her hands dropped to her lap, eyes still unfocused. She struggled for a word, anything to break this silence. It hurt more than being alone, it was more isolated than solitude. She stood abruptly, padding softly to the door, each footfall a deliberate cacophony with the silence. Reaching the door, she turned the doorknob with a resonating squeak and left, chancing a look behind her to the figure softly silhouetted by muted candlelight.

As the door closed, Hermione exhaled. Had she been breathing at all? She didn't remember, her thoughts were so mixed and lost inside her ordinarily organized mind. Pulling her wand out from under the books, she waved the candles into darkness. She was left with the scent of the pages she loved, and the memory of lips taking her skin, caressing it, obsessing over it, soothing it. Her hand twitched. She reached up to touch the spot that still tingled and throbbed. Pressing her finger into the redness, warmth spread from the point to the ends of her feet and the nerves of her eyes. Glowing, maybe even smiling, she couldn't tell, she leaned back. Closing her eyes, the room faded from her mind, leaving only a couch… and Ginny.


	3. Of showers and such

Eggs? Something faintly Mexican? Ginny turned over, her face falling into the shaft of light that woke her up each morning. Squinting in the harsh gold, she stretched under the thick blankets, arching, waking her muscles. With a sigh she recoiled and sat up groggily, grabbing her shoulder to loosen the tense muscle. She was mildly surprised to find that she hadn't changed into her nightgown the night before. Dismissing it, she pushed back the quilt and swung her legs over the side. It felt like a Monday, heavy and foreboding. She stood, grabbed her towel, and strode to the shower.

It had to be scalding. Boiling hot, hot enough to fog the mirrors within seconds, hot enough to leave you red and tingling even after you were dry and clothed again. Ginny tested it, holding her arm in for as long as she could stand. Just a little too hot. Taps changed, twisted, reading her motions, enchanted and obedient. She shed her shirt, then slid her pants off. Bra, underwear… they joined their counterparts on the smooth-tiled floor. Ginny stepped daintily into the shower, the pounding water rubbing the sleep from her body, kneading her back muscles into submission. She moaned softly as the tension left her, lavender filling her nostrils with heavenly relaxation. Holding her hand underneath one of the five golden taps, pastel body wash slid like silk into her palm. Humming softly, she smoothed it over her body. Steam filled her nose, the showerhead echoing her thoughts in scent. Lavender filled the bathroom, making Ginny almost float with the serenity it provided. But something else began to infuse into the calming scent. Something faintly tropical, a musky, heavy scent tickled her nose. Paying no heed, she continued her morning ritual, tickling her skin with the lotion and smoothing it into her body. She lathered herself, hands inexplicably drawn to her own breasts, playing gently there. Smiling, her eyes closed to the heat of the pounding water, she allowed her body to take its course, running her hands down her stomach and back up, igniting the nerves in her abdomen. She pulled harder at her nipples, pinching and scratching carefully, spiraling quickly into rough, primal motions. Leaning back against the wall of the shower, the clashing sensations of the frigid tile and the scalding water made her eyes snap open, her hand circling lower and lower between her thighs, until it eventually circled her own sex.

Glazed, completely unearthed, Ginny brought herself to the peak of sensation, moaning, growling, the most basic of sounds, hand wildly thrusting, unable to get enough of this feeling. It hit, stars floating, the most powerful orgasm of her life, making the heat sting like tiny drops of molten lava on the engorged nerve-endings of her aroused body. Panting, she slid down the tiled wall onto the floor, completely exhausted. Something in the back of her head called to her. Groggily, smiling moronically with the intense relief, she tried to hear what it was. Kava Kava! She laughed to herself. Musky tropical scent? Kava Kava, the worlds most powerful aphrodisiac. That would explain her unusual behavior.

But… why would the shower surprise her like that? It was enchanted, yes… but not intelligent. Responding only to the wishes of the user, it did not have the ability to make its own decisions.

Ginny rose, suddenly ill-at-ease. Quickly rinsing off, the shower stopped, and she stepped out. Wrapping herself in her towel, she was bitten by the sudden chill. She turned to the mirror. Bright red, a shade to contest her own flaming hair, she wore an expression of perplexed unease. It was unbecoming. Looking down and shrugging, Ginny walked from the bathroom, greeting her shaft of light with a smile, and her wardrobe with much relief.

Clean, dressed, and wand in hand, Ginny felt ready to start her day. After a quick charm to make her bed, she made her way to the door. Glancing sideways, the breath left her chest, and her heart fell deep into her abdomen. She stopped, stock still, her wand raised and shaking. The bed- that bed. The only other bed in the room, the room she shared… the room she shared with Hermione. She blinked slowly, heavily. Mouth open, finally able to breathe, her wand falling with a soft thud onto the threadbare carpet beneath her feet, she stepped backwards. Finding the wall with her hands, she stood, her weight on the musty wallpaper, mouthing silently. That bed… that girl… that night. Last night. She shook her head, wet hair hitting her face. She had forgotten, forgotten in the drone of the morning. She slid slowly to the ground. The bed was made, sheets crisp and perfect, just the way they always were. The pillow was even immaculate, no crinkles, no lines. It was the very image of Hermione. It hadn't been slept in.

Ginny's eyes snapped back suddenly, and she stood up. Bending to retrieve her wand, she collected her thoughts. Had it been a dream? The sensations, the closeness, the warmth… had she imagined it? Was that the explanation for the shower's unexplainable behavior? Her hand worried her neck out of habit. Suddenly she snatched it back. Running to the bathroom, she fiercely lit the candles with a snap of her wand, and pulled back her hair.

It was there. There, under her ear. The red and purple patch, the telltale mark of Hermione's ministrations, glowed spectacularly on her shower-red skin. Ginny just stared, disbelieving the evidence in front of her, breathing shallowly. As she watched that spot in the mirror, the night played out in front of her like she had filmed it, captured it forever. Reliving it, the pain, the terrible truth… and then the actuality. A resolution so powerful, so moving that it even left a mark.

She straightened. Breakfast smelled wonderful.

Tucking her wand into her pocket, she left the bathroom, closed the bedroom door behind her, and put her foot on the first stair. She wanted so badly to resolve what they had done, to forget it and move on. But something inside her, the same something that made her shake and tremble even now, desperately wanted to relive the night again and again, so deeply intertwined with this brown-haired girl that she could never be free; not that she would ever want to.

…

Hermione woke suddenly, a heavy weight compressing her lungs, making it impossible to draw breath. Sitting up abruptly, gasping, sputtering, flailing for air, she connected with none other than Crookshanks himself, curled contentedly on his master's chest, keeping warm in the early morning chill. Shrieking and hissing, Crookshanks vaulted off, landing on the stack of books ungracefully before scampering off through the slightly ajar door. Pale blue light was filtering in through the dust-encrusted windows to the north. Ugh. It was a Monday.

Sitting up, Hermione rubbed her eyes. Her lower back was kinked from sleeping on the lumpy couch. Silently standing, she was suddenly very aware of the draft whipping violently around her ankles. Shivering, arms tucked tight under her chest, she shuffled to the door. Voices whispered downstairs, sometimes breaking into a nervous peal of laughter, or the clink of earthenware bowls. She smiled. Number 12 was alive this morning. She could hear Ron's dull mumblings. Sliding through the threshold, she padded down the second floor hallway to her room. A shower and a set of clean clothes seemed like a wonderful idea, especially on such a cold, blue morning. Reaching the third door on the left, she turned the latch and went inside, habitually closing it behind her. She strode to her bed, pulling out her wand to put it neatly astride her pillow. A white glow came from the window over Ginny's bed.

She stopped.

Ginny's bed!

Pulling back suddenly, Hermione stumbled unceremoniously onto her own bed. Ginny hadn't heard her. She dared to breathe. Picking up her wand, she hesitated. Using magic on someone without their knowledge was never a kind thing to do. But extreme times…

A slight flash, and Ginny turned over. Hermione's breath caught. Had it worked? She stayed stock still under her breathing evened again. A simple sleeping spell wouldn't harm her. Quickly, Hermione grabbed her things from the wardrobe and scampered into the bathroom. The door shut with a click, and she warded and soundproofed it just to be sure. Panting, back against the door, she looked skyward, willing the pounding light in the back of her eyes to fade.

Minutes passed, and Hermione's breath slowed. She opened her eyes to the darkness of the bathroom. A slit of light shone under the door where the bathroom floor had sunk a little with the weight of the smooth tiles. She ran a hand over her face dejectedly, idly lighting the candles with a wave of her wand. Golden light rose around her and made her blink a few times in the warmth of the colors that enveloped her. She bent forward to put her clean clothes on a bench beside the shower, as the water began to adjust and change behind the curtain.

Hermione shed her clothes and stepped into the spray. It was perfect, as always, slightly warm and smelling of rose-hips and thyme. A signature scent she had worn since she took her first bath nineteen years ago. It was familiar, pleasant, heavy and warm. Standing in the cascading water, Hermione did nothing. She just let the sheet of water fall over her, washing away the night before. Memories, sensations, an indistinct murmur just behind her ear, all these spoke of her contact. Hermione felt dirty somehow. She'd betrayed a secret trust with her body. These feelings, foreign and forbidden, they could not stay with her. She washed her arms. This girl that was invading her head was just another product of the madness of wartime. Her hair was shampooed and light. Ginny, last night… it was all nothing more than madness in these trying times, a textbook example of finding acceptance, both social and mental, in the arms of another person. She turned off the water and stepped out, toweling dry and quickly putting on her clothes. It was logical, it was textual, it was black and white.

Around her, the warm pinks and reds faded slightly, washed out and grey.


	4. Of sunlight and laughter

"Ron!" called Hermione, bursting through the swinging door to the kitchen. He was sitting jauntily on one of the rickety kitchen tables, fork in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.

"Hermione!" he laughed, the fork clattering onto his breakfast burrito. Standing up with a flourish, the pair embraced. Mrs. Weasley looked at the pair with a fond expression. Seeing everyone together and happy was a rare treat for her now. Ron drew back, pulling out the chair beside him.

"And how _have_ you been! Honestly, Mione, I haven't seen you for… what, two months?" he asked, as Hermione took her seat. A plate complete with eggs, a burrito, toast, and three sausages slid in front of her, followed (rather a little too quickly) by a fork, wielded inexpertly by Nevelle's shaky wand. She smiled and turned back to Ron as he sat in front of his own meal.

"It's been tough. But I'm so glad you're home! What's the occasion? Is everything going alright? Are Harry and the professors making due?" she sat upright, pulling her chair closer to the table. She suddenly felt very hungry, not at all like she'd been feeling the past few weeks. Ron shook his head, shoveling eggs into his mouth and chasing them with a swig from his earthenware mug. It clunked loudly onto the old wooden table.

"There's something you've got to understand, Mione… what we're doing isn't exactly…" he trailed off, eyes flickering between Hermione's own, searching. She looked down, catching a sausage with the tines of her fork. Luna looked up from a book, dull eyes watery from behind her glasses. Mrs. Weasley stopped washing her pot. The only sounds were the crackles and pops of the flames in the hearth and Ron's jaw as he chewed his food. Nevelle sniffed.

"Harry's fine. Dumbledore is wearing thin and he knows it, but the rest of the staff is doing-- Oh. Well, we… we did loose McGonnigal," he stammered, looking down. He played with a bit of toast, "Dementors. I wasn't right there, but Trelweny says she screamed an awful lot. I… well, that explains why I came home too, doesn't it?" He trailed off. Hermione nodded softly. She looked into the fire. It wasn't bright enough. She looked up, all around her. Things looked so old. Grey, cracked plaster; petrified wood beams above yawned gaps of split wood, colorless chasms of age and distress. The food was brown. Toast, sausage, limp tortilla, eggs. They were all browns. She cleared her throat.

"Oh. Well… it's lovely to have you home again, Ron! This place has been so gloomy lately, its wonderful to see a new face," Hermione said. She smiled. It almost hurt, it was so unnatural. The room exhaled its held breath with the action. Luna turned back to her book, and Nevelle tripped on a stool, stumbling slightly in his effort to help Mrs. Weasley with the leftovers. The pots were banging and clanking in a desperate race for the washbasin. Ron picked up his mug and took a swig before turning sideways to Hermione and smiling. She nodded back and turned to her food. Her eggs looked lovely. A faint yellow, even. She grinned to herself, sinking her fork into the delicate mass. Lifting it to her lips, it tasted like milky relief.

…

The door creaked awfully loud as she pushed it open. Someone was at the table she didn't recognize. He turned to face her.

"Ginny! Oh, gods, I'm so glad you're up! It's been all I could do not to stomp upstairs and wake you!" Ron cried, laughing. He enveloped his little sister in a giant hug. Ginny laughed and whacked him between his shoulders. He sprung up, grinning.

"So you're finally home. It's about time! I was getting worried that you'd never pay me back that galleon I lent you last summer," scolded Ginny, intercepting a plate on her way to the table. She sat down opposite her brother, adjusting her plate before looking up. Ron's eyes were bright and warm. Ginny smiled and poked around her burrito. Something moved to her left, and she glanced over.

It didn't matter how hard she tried. She blinked twice, breaking the contact she knew she couldn't stand. Hermione resolutely looked at her food. A twitch of her mouth betrayed her silent smile. Lavender crossed the wooden table to meet her, a pillowed hand reaching out to gently caress her jaw. Her eyes flickered despite herself, a glow rippling across her skin that she was loath to admit. No one would see.

Ginny cleared her throat. Her toes curled in her slippers, nervously clenching in twitches of awkwardness and insecurity. She looked up at Ron. He was smiling jovially at his little sister, sitting compactly across from him. Ginny smiled back.

"Well now, Ron. Let's hear it. What's the weather like in Britain? Any good shopping?" she joked, taking a bite of her toast. Ron chuckled, draining his mug and leaning back in his chair. Mrs. Weasley levitated his cleaned dishes to the sink, much to the joy of Nevelle, who immediately jumped up to help. Something about the room had warmed since Ginny and her lavender trail had entered. Luna even went so far as to turn her book right-side up. Hermione blinked twice. Vivid colors radiated around her. The grey, age-smoothed wood of the table now lay with an inviting toffee hue under her plate. She looked up at Ginny, slowly, her hair a curtain from behind which she peered. The red was so bright today, shockingly golden yet blonde and black all at the same time.

But it didn't matter. It was just hair, the same hair that she had seen on Ron since the day they met on Platform 9¾, their very first year of Hogwarts. Suddenly Hermione was struck with reality, a hard clang of a fork in the washbasin making her jerk up and straighten. How had she been so stupid? The sun was rising higher outside their enchanted kitchen window, sending an arc of light across the table. Ginny's fractal hair had been nothing but a reflection of glorious morning. Hermione almost laughed. The smile stole at the corners of her mouth, reflected in her shoulders as they relaxed and her jaw as the muscle smoothed under her skin. She lifted the last bite of sausage to her mouth and savored the flavor of fresh syrup on her tongue. Ron smiled beside her, and Ginny ate quickly across the table.

Ginny couldn't eat her food fast enough. Between talking with her brother and fitting the burrito in her mouth, she had little time to dwell on the girl that sat opposite her. It didn't matter anyway, Hermione always sat there. Her dull brown hair greeted the sunlight every morning, only to be lost in the candlelight of the upstairs study scarcely an hour later. Ginny was accustomed to watching her eat, a very calculated and measured method of parceling the flavors into succulent parades of culinary delight. Although she did not understand her ways, she certainly knew them. And, just as she was doing now, she always rose from her seat and carried her dish to the sink, as if magic was a foreign concept to the brilliant witch of Hogwarts. Ginny lowered her fork.

"Hermione, are you working upstairs today?" Ginny asked, casually taking a bite of toast and eyeing her with lackluster intent. Hermione took her seat again, crossing her legs under the table in thought. Ginny chewed loudly, the crunch of the toast obscured by the overwhelming sounds of alive-ness that flooded the kitchen that morning. Luna laughed as Nevelle and Mrs. Weasley shared a joke by the stove. Something sputtered and hissed in a large cast-iron cauldron on the fire, and a small dragon of purple smoke was being conducted around the room by Ron, leaning on the back legs of his chair. Somewhere above the dish rack, a trio of owls suddenly hooted their ambivalent indignation as the dragon whooshed by, barely clipping the roosting birds. The girls laughed as Pig fluttered to the window to ruffle in the bath of sunlight.

"Yeah. I'm going to try to make it through the next three volumes of _Priori_ before lunch," replied Hermione, standing up and pushing her chair softly into the table. Ginny nodded. Hermione looked up to catch her gaze, an insignificant connection that was dropped as soon as it began. Ginny smiled indulgently, in a similar way one would indulge a small child. Ron sent Hermione skittering out of the room with his smoke-dragon. The door swung shut behind her, as she left the bubbling laughter and encompassing golden blanket to return to the blanket of dust and darkness that consumed her many hours. The teeming kitchen was left to its own devices.

s3xy-Lady: Don't you worry! It'll come. There is the issue of a plot to take care of first, though... ;)

Risifruttiii: Thanks... it'll pick up once there are more chapters, I hope.

RogueGirl: Amazing words, thank you very much! I'll definitely work on this more often. I'm in a sticky spot with some art comissions right now, though. Updates should get faster after testing is over.

-buckup


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